Pray For Us Sinners
by amaresu
Summary: Lighting candles. A conversation in a church. How does one achieve forgiveness?


I'm not sure when this ritual started. I think it happened the first time back in LA, after Hasdrabul Skaras. I light two candles, one for the person I just sent back to hell and one for myself. I don't pray--I don't know what I would pray for--but lighting the candles seems somehow appropriate. Back in LA, I know that Father Horn lights candles for me. I've never asked what it is that the Father prays for; I'm not sure I want to know the answer to that question. I miss LA. There, there were always an open church, or at least Father Horn.

There's only one church in the town I'm in, somewhere in Kansas. I had to break in. Apparently, in small towns, they like to lock up for the night. I could've waited until morning, but I want to be on the first bus out of town. Also, coming at night means that I won't run into the priest. Priests like to talk to the people that come into their churches, especially the strangers.

"It doesn't work you know." The voice behind me is comforting in it's familiarity. That used to bother me, but doesn't anymore. I can't help but wonder if the fact that it doesn't bother me should bother me. "You can light all the candles you want, but it won't make a bit of difference on the cosmic scale."

I turn to look at the Devil. It's always weird to see him in a church--like the ground should reject the creature standing before me, even though I know it won't happen; I've seen the Devil in enough churches over the years. I don't say anything, just raise an eyebrow and wait for the rest of the lecture I know is coming. He likes to lecture me before doing anything else. "If all it took to get out of Hell was to have some candles lit for you, then my happy little domain would be much emptier."

I walk to one of the pews and sit down; might as well get as comfortable as possible for this. It's only after the Devil sits down next to me that I speak. "So there's no chance of redemption for the damned? God never forgives?" I honestly wouldn't be surprised if that were the case.

Now the Devil looks at me and smiles. "No, there is redemption. God loves to forgive people; but to be forgiven, one must truly repent. Few people are ever actually sorry for their crimes." There's a smirk on his face as he talks. I used to hate that smirk. "They're sorry for being in Hell. It's one in a million, one in ten million, who ever departs my loving embrace for Heaven."

"Really." It's a statement, not a question. I've grown used to these conversations over the years, but I don't think I'll ever welcome them.

"Oh, come now, Ezekiel, if redemption was easy, everyone would be doing it." The Devil laughs to himself, like it's all a big joke; I suppose for him it is. "Let's take some of my wayward souls as examples. How about Brian Reed? You remember him?"

"The kid with multiple personalities." I remembers Brian, all right. The other two had deserved Hell, but sending Brian back would always haunt me. The kid deserved better than he gotten.

"Yes, the poor boy." The Devil leans back in the pew as he talks, stretching his arms out along the back: pretending to be subtle. "Now if it was just him, he'd have been long gone from my domain. I doubt he would have ever ended up there to begin with. It's the other two that are the problem. They will never believe that what they did was wrong; and since they are Brian..."

He doesn't need to finish the sentence; I do it for him, just like he wanted. "So because he was abused and his mind broke, he'll always be in Hell?"

"Precisely." The Devil looks over at me and frowns. "Now, don't be sad, Ezekiel. I didn't make the rules. Perhaps you'd like a happier story? How about Martin Benedict? You two seemed to get along."

"You're going to tell me that he's in Hell, failing to truly repent?" It was strange, but Benedict had never haunted me. It was the way he'd calmly waited for the bullets. If I ever have to go back to Hell, I know I'll rage against it; Benedict had just held his book and accepted it. It was hard to feel bad about something like that.

"No, I said this would be a happy story. It seems that his time on Earth gave our Mr. Benedict a true appreciation for what he had done. Before his escape he was sorry for just about everything, but mainly for himself. During his time away from my loving embrace, he found what he should have been sorry for all along." The Devil moves his hand so his nails can scrap against my neck. "Martin Benedict had a very short stay in Hell the second time."

Holding back a shudder from the feel of the nails along my skin, I draw a breath to respond, "So he's not in Hell anymore?"

"No, he's not. I do miss him." He leans in close to my ear. "He did most of the torture himself. I barely had to do anything. Not all of my guests are so obliging."

This time I'm unable to hold back the shudder that goes through me as his breath goes across my ear. I can practically feel his smile and he doesn't bother to hold back the laughter. It's low and more then a little bit mocking. I find it hard to care as he places his hand firmly on the back of my neck. I know what's coming next and I hold my breath in anticipation. He doesn't disappoint; suddenly, he squeezes his hand and something similar to, but not quite like, electricity seems to flow down my neck. From there it concentrates on the tattoos covering my torso, causing them to tingle. It's not exactly pleasant, but it's also__not unpleasant, and the newly-empty spot on my shoulder feels naked as it remains tingle free. I release the air in my lungs suddenly in a long and almost silent moan as I relax against the pew, leaning into the hand on my neck.

"Let's look at your case, my dear Detective Stone." The Devil shifts in his seat now, moving so he can lean over me. As he talks, he touches the tattoos unerringly through my clothes. They flare with the same energy and I have to struggle to listen to him. "You will never be sorry for killing Gilbert Jax. Never. You'll be sorry for dying. You'll be sorry for leaving poor Rosalyn all alone. You'll even be sorry for Jax's mother, but you'll never be sorry for killing him."

I want to argue with him, even though I know he's right, but I can't. The only air I'm capable of taking in is expelled almost as quickly in groans and moans as his fingers move across me. Talking is as far from possible as walking is at this moment. "You will always be mine," he whispers into my ear as he pushes me to lean forward so he can access the tattoos on my back. I can't reply, though I try anyway. I struggle to regain enough control of my body to talk--I want to deny his claim on me; my deal was for a second chance, a fresh slate. Just as I think I can manage a few words, he pushes down on a cluster of tattoos along my right arm. I lose the fight quickly and abandon all thoughts of furthering the argument. Instead, I give into the Devil's fingers.

He leaves at some point, but I had lost track of time long before that. The energy continues to flow along my torso and arms for some time after. When I'm finally able to move again it's morning and the priest has shown up to unlock the church. I stand up--somewhere along the line, I ended up laying along the pew--and quickly make for the side door I'd come in through; I'd rather not answer any questions if I don't have to. Once outside, I realize it's later than I'd thought; the windows were high up in the church. By the time I get to the bus station, I've missed the bus.


End file.
